


Self-Indulgence

by arseniclobster



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Angry Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arseniclobster/pseuds/arseniclobster
Summary: Nights on the Asp, when he’s had too much to drink, he lets his anger get the best of him. Afterward, when the fit has passed, he’ll be flooded by the blackest self-disgust; but now, in the moment....
Relationships: Anne Elliot/Frederick Wentworth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Self-Indulgence

Nights on the _Asp_ , when he’s had too much to drink, he lets his anger get the best of him. Afterward, when the fit has passed, he’ll be flooded by the blackest self-disgust; but now, in the moment, while his resentment and the alcohol he’s consumed have their fingers squarely locked together, he lets himself think back to that time in a port town when he walked through an accidentally unbolted door and saw one of his shipmates taking liberties with a giggling barmaid, and before he knows it, he’s envisioning the girl who broke his heart kneeling on the rug in front of his chair in the same shocking position. He’s picturing her hair coming loose from its knot and falling in a dark brown haze around her shoulders; she’s wearing one of her virginal white dresses, but he knows better. And oh how the rage ripples like a volcanic heat through his frame in that moment: rage at his weakness, rage at hers.

“Have you had your fill yet, Miss Elliot, or do you still want more?” he asks in a tone that he deliberately makes sound almost lazy, the question taking on the intonations of a declarative statement, a manifestation of how badly he wants to be in control. And the fantasy creature kneeling on the dusty rug pauses her ministrations, tilting her disheveled head back just enough to look up at him, wet-eyed, and whisper implausibly, “Please…more.”

“‘Please, more,’” he mimics slowly, watching the cheeks of this Anne-like vision flame crimson with abject embarrassment. “‘Please, more.’ So the baronet’s _delicate_ daughter’s a trollop after all.”

At his cruel sarcasm, the fantasy woman squeals, but already he’s guiding her to the bed and grunting, “Bend over.” In this new position, her now-liberated mouth starts making all manner of unsuccessfully suppressed moans in time with his harsh movements, and while these noises admittedly add kindling to the fire of his mingled wrath and desire, he thinks of the men on the other side of the thin wooden wall and knows he cannot allow this. “If you can’t silence those wanton sounds, Miss Elliot, I have no choice but to gag you,” he says, picking up her discarded stockings from the bed and putting them to new use. Soon she’s making quieter, more muffled, but still deliciously audible cries while the hurricane of anger gripping him spins yet more and more hotly.

“To think this is what your highborn cunt needed all along, then: to be fucked…in the bowels of a ship…by a dirty…no-name…sailor.” He enunciates the obscenities crisply, enjoying how her back starts to visibly tremble at his words. He suspects that if he hadn’t silenced her with her own stockings, she’d be responding to this unprecedented insult with an angry outpouring of words of her own. But he doesn’t care, and oh, how good it feels—just for that moment—not to care. Tightening his hold on her wrists, he goes on: “If only your precious Lady Russell could see you now, could see what you really are.” (At this, her back starts bucking particularly wildly, but he continues, merciless.) “Your knees muddied…a sailor’s seed smeared on your face and hair. She’d think marriage to me was too good for you.” The fantasy-Anne lets out a terribly loud groan at this, despite the stockings, and he feels a blazing satisfaction.

For the next few moments, he is silent, just focusing on the sensations. Then: “Sated yet, Miss Elliot? I could go on like this all night.” Implausibly, his fantasy-Anne (driven by what? guilt? a perverse delight in humiliation? both?) keens through her gag, _Don’t stop_ …. Afterward, when the fit has passed, he’ll be flooded by a sulfurous self-loathing that brings him to the brink of vomiting and perhaps beyond, but now, in the moment, this is the solace he needs.


End file.
